


they don't look none too clean

by aphoticdepths



Category: Planescape: Torment
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Flashbacks, M/M, Not Really Necrophilia But Sex With The Undead, Skullfucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23112667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphoticdepths/pseuds/aphoticdepths
Summary: This isn't his ideal. But a hole is a hole and release is release.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	they don't look none too clean

This is what he remembers:

They're at a camp, somewhere in the wilderness. There's some lead on this nowhere world, rumors of someone who might know something that might help, and so he goes without civilization. His mind doesn't linger on the specifics. He's frustrated-it's been four days they've been traveling through this wilderness looking for this necromancer's lair, four days without streets or beds or decent food. Or whores.

He's pent up, is the thing. Or at the least, he needs something to get his mind out of its rut. All there is, however, is his hand and...

Hmm. There's an idea.

The skull doesn't need to eat or sleep(technically, he doesn't need to either, but it would be painful and slow to kill him and inefficient). It's with his bags, clacking its teeth. It had tried to babble to break the silence early on, but he'd shut it up quickly. He'd rather a companion with legs, one that hadn't _tricked_ him, but the thing is obedient(if cringing) and it has some use in a fight.

"Skull."

It jolts off the ground, springing into the air and spinning to look at him. "Right, yes, chief! You, uh, you do know I don't have directions? Like I told you earlier, even if-"

"I'm not asking for directions. Come over here."

It floats over, but he can see its incongruous eyeballs rolling around their little site, trying to figure out his intentions. "Changed your mind about a little conversation?" it asks, in a cheerful tone that doesn't fit how fearfully the eyes watch him.

"Your eyes. Do you see through them?"

It lists to one side, cocking itself on an imaginary neck. "Nah. Most of us don't need them."

He thinks of the eyes of the Pillar of Skulls, bloodshot and maddened and yellow with pus, and nods to himself. He takes it in hand, lowering it to the proper level as he frees himself from the rags and leather at his waist.

"I need to take my mind off things. You'll do."

It trembles, teeth chattering in repetitive irritating clacks. "Uh, c-chief, I'm flattered, really, but I'm sure you can do it on your own, I could probably find you some nice material if we were back in Sigil but out here, well, I'll turn my back and you can find some embalming fluid-"

He tightens his grip. Not enough to crack it, but hard enough to remind it that he _can_. The skull quiets down. With his other hand, he takes his cock, methodically strokes the scarred flesh into half-hardness while the skull quivers almost pleasantly under his hand.

The skull gives a nervous laugh without good humor. "That's, uh, real impressive, chief, and I'd probably be jealous if I still had mine, but I don't think it'll actually work? Limited space, no real throat..." The teeth clack as he adjusts its position.

The skull gives a high, choked scream when he puts it in. He's much too big to hilt or go deep, like it said, but he can get enough in and it's wet and tight, with residual heat lingering from the day's sun. It trembles hard enough that it vibrates against his cock in a way that usually requires magic, devices, or an unusual partner. That's good.

He fucks it fast. A few thrusts in, there's a hideous cracking noise, and the skull doesn't stop its wailing, jaw hanging agape as it shrieks. The wetness is good, the smoothness is new, and it's tighter than a whore could be even after he's bludgeoned it broken. That line of inquiry was _useless_ -and remembering that makes his movements harsher and deeper and his grip tighten to the point hairline cracks form under his fingers-and this was no amendment for it, but at least the thing had its uses.

The skull has no breath or lungs, and doesn't run out of breath for its wail. At times the scream cracked and broke into gibbering whimpers. Many times, it begged for him to "stop, please, stop, you're gonna kill me". He doesn't. But he does finish-an almost harsh thing, quick and brutal, but it's a deep pleasure and relief. His seed fills the socket, mingling with the remains of the eyeball and sloshing over the broken rim as he pulls his softening cock out.

He throws the skull to the ground and it rolls slightly away, not enough control regained to move under its own power, sobbing and whimpering like a wounded animal. His head does feel clearer, calmer. This worked well, he thinks.

The wordless noises of fear and agony coming out of its mouth mingle together, getting more coherent. He is aware of a different posture, of a different world coming into focus against him.

"...and it always ends up like this," the terrified, agonized, ruined voice says, now sounding bored and worldly-wise. "Chief? You hearing me in there yet? Am I getting through? Chief? Chief? Hey, what's with that look? You catch a whiff of yourself or something?"

**Author's Note:**

> Been on a bit of a skullfucking kick lately, I guess. 
> 
> This was hard to write, because Morte's a fascinating character and I really wanted to get him and Practical right. I don't expect this to exactly get attention, but it was fun to write.


End file.
